


Photoshoot

by Lohrendrell



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Human, Consensual Sex, Do It With Style Mini Bang (Good Omens), Emotional Sex, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Illustrated, Inexperienced Aziraphale (Good Omens), Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm With Tears, Romance, Sexy Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:09:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25903351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lohrendrell/pseuds/Lohrendrell
Summary: Aziraphale is a lonely 40-year-old bachelor struggling to make ends meet despite his photography degree and varied artistic skills. One day, Anthony J. Crowley, 29, professional “cam boy”, hires Aziraphale to do a photoshoot for the new platform in his career he is launching soon. Aziraphale has very little experience with private photoshoots and zero experience with anything remotely erotic. He is also afraid this gig will bring afloat feelings he has worked hard to repress for decades, but he really needs the money, this client is paying really well and seems gentle enough. Maybe Aziraphale can do it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 58
Collections: Good Omens Mini Bang





	Photoshoot

**Author's Note:**

> This is an entry for the 2020 Good Omens Mini Bang, run by Do It With Style events! A bit delayed, a few bumps on the road here and there, but finally it's here!
> 
> Art by the talented goosewriting, who deserves all the love in the world <3 Go check their [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/goosetooths/) for more amazing ineffable husbands art!

Aziraphale is flushing even before he gets to the door. He stops in his tracks, thinking that perhaps he shouldn’t answer it. Perhaps this is a mistake, this gig is doomed to failure—though he’s had experience with personal photoshoots, the few weddings and graduation parties he has covered over the year do not compare _at all_ to what he’s about to do. To what he’s agreed to do.

Perhaps it would be better to just pretend he isn’t home, avoid the embarrassment, send a message cancelling everything and return the money Mr. Crowley paid upfront.

Except he can’t, now, can he? He is barely making ends meet as it is. Last month he nearly didn’t make rent on time. Grocery shopping has been reduced to once every ten days so as to avoid him falling into temptation and buying sweets and pastries he doesn’t really. He’s going on his third month without buying any clay for his pottery projects, and there is only a number of times he can reuse what he’s already gotten… He hasn’t sold a painting in months…

The doorbell rings again; Aziraphale jumps slightly.

Right. Cancelling now would be more than rude, it would be terribly unprofessional. Aziraphale might be a bunch of things, including a pathetic old man unable to meet any of his family’s expectations, but, even though his career choices haven’t led him toward the golden path of success he once dreamed of, something he is not is unprofessional.

He can do it. He’s just overthinking things again. And, he muses to himself, if he, the professional photographer, is feeling all those sorts of things, what’s to say of his client? The poor lad might be even more apprehensive than old boy Aziraphale, yeah?

Courage renewed, he opens the door, sure of his ability to be there for a client in a time of need; it is his job, after all, aside from taking pretty pictures, to make his clients feel welcome and secure.

He is a professional. Nothing wrong with what is going to happen today—it’s just… somewhat unorthodox, that’s all.

“Oh, there you are,” Aziraphale greets happily, pushing his own apprehension aside with a wide smile. “Good morning to you, sir.”

The young man who greets him back is almost exactly like the photos Aziraphale had seen when they message each other to set the details of the gig. Almost, but not quite. He is taller, his hair is even redder, and he is very, very handsome. “Morning,” Mr. Crowley says, his tone much quieter than Aziraphale’s. “Hope I’m not too early.”

“Not at all!” Aziraphale says, perhaps a little too loudly. Mr. Crowley’s voice, too, isn’t exactly like what he had heard on one of their phone calls—it was deeper. “Did you, er… Did you have any trouble finding the place?”

“None at all. I’m familiar with the area. Lived not far from here a couple of years ago.”

“Marvelous, then.” Upon finding nothing else to add, Aziraphale repeats: “Marvelous.”

“So…” Mr. Crowley shifts, adjusting on his shoulders the handles of two giant duffel bags he was carrying. “Can I, uh. Can I come in, then?”

“O-oh. Of course, of course.” Very ungraciously, Aziraphale steps aside, wiggling clumsily, horribly, as he makes space for his client to enter the tiny flat. “Where are my manners? Please do come in. Make yourself at home. You’re home here, with me, haha. Mi casa es su casa.”

Mr. Crowley gives him a look, and Aziraphale winces, wanting to kick himself.

“Sure. Mind if I drop these somewhere? They’re kinda heavy.”

“Of course, my dear. Please make yourself comfortable over there.”

Aziraphale’s flat isn’t anything anyone would call impressive. It is tiny, in an old building with so many pipe problems he and many other tenants managed to get fidelity cards from several different plumbing services. With an electrical wiring system so old they were forbidden to install more than a couple power plugs in each apartment. The bright side of it, however, is that it created some kind of customary rent control—it was by far the cheapest place to live in all of Soho, and Aziraphale much prefers to stay in a neighborhood he’s known all his life than venture himself in the outskirts of London, getting lost in some place far away and unknown.

Aziraphale points to one of the four corners of the flat, the corner he calls his bedroom. He moved the bed a bit, closer to the window that took almost the entire wall, setting up the space they would need for a studio.

Well, a makeshift studio.

He woke up at 4 a.m. (okay, he didn’t sleep at all the previous night) just to straighten everything up. Aziraphale isn’t the most organized person in the world, but he did tidy up the entire place nicely for today. The tools he uses on his crafts are all put away in another corner, along with all the empty canvases and the paintings he usually hangs up on the bedroom walls until he sells them. The finished pottery has all been collected to the old couch he pushed to yet another corner, leaving the entire place bare except for the bed and the artificial lights equipment. His tiny kitchen, on the fourth and last corner, held only a small table with two chairs. It was tidied up, but otherwise left untouched. 

“I hope everything is to your liking,” says Aziraphale, watching as his client drops the bag on the floor behind the camera and lights gear.

“Very good, actually. Just as I imagined. You used the sheets I sent you, didn’t ya?”

“Of course.” Mr. Crowley had sent just the other day, through mail, a pair of luxurious silk sheets, certainly the most expensive piece of bed clothing he had ever touched, one white and one black. Aziraphale’s bed was to be used as a scenario, given the nature of the photoshoot, and Aziraphale chose to use the white sheets to start.

Thoughts of the _nature_ of the photoshoot pops up in his mind again, but Aziraphale doesn’t linger on them. He can’t.

“Would you like some tea?”

The other man is now kneeling over the bags, fumbling for something inside. “What?” 

“Tea, my dear. Would you like some before we start?”

“Sure, yeah.”

Aziraphale puts the kettle on as he watches his client getting acquainted with the makeshift studio. Aziraphale is somewhat embarrassed over what he has to offer, even though they had already discussed the space available over the phone. ‘It’s fine, really,’ Mr. Crowley had said, finding the prospect of doing it in Aziraphale's own home and not in some fancy studio quite enticing. ‘It’s even better. More privacy and we won’t have to worry about the hours. I’ll pay you for the space by the hour, of course.’

Honestly, how could Aziraphale say no to that offer? What was it that they said, immorality has nothing on starvation? He isn’t making that up, is he?

He watches as his client pulls some props from the duffel bags—a couple of fluffy pillows, several hair and make-up supplies, some weird pieces of clothing.

“Can I set up these already?” Mr. Crowley asks, lifting the pillows and gesturing to the bed with his head. They are huge and comfy looking, and Aziraphale already sees how _inviting_ they would be in the photos he is about to take.

“Of course. Suit yourself. You can also use the bathroom in that door over there.” Aziraphale points to a door to Mr. Crowley’s left. “I set it up for you to use as a dressing room of some sort. Sorry it’s not much.”

“It’s perfectly fine. Thank you.”

As his client takes his bags and supplies into the bathroom, Aziraphale focuses on the tea. He sets some biscuits in the newest ceramic plate he’s done—the cutest of his creations from last weeks, if anyone asks his opinion; it’s painted white with blue splatters, just a soft looking little thing that he’s becoming too attached to, to the point he is considering not selling it, ever, even though that will probably cost him some substantial blow in his income—as well as some cupcakes.

“So, Mr. Crowley,” Aziraphale says as his client emerges from the bathroom, the jacket he was wearing before discarded, but not his dark sunglasses.

“Anthony.”

“You can call me Anthony.” He accepts the mug Aziraphale offers, sipping at it as he sits down on the tiny kitchen table. “I’m not too keen on too many formalities. It makes me... feel old.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Not that there's anything wrong with being old,” he amends quickly, gesturing vaguely with some frenzy. Aziraphale understands the slip up (or what Mr. Cr—Anthony thinks of a slip up) for what it is, which makes him feel embarrassed. He turned forty just last month, but he knows, _he knows_ , every time he looks in the mirror and every time random people are overly polite to him, that he…

Well, he let himself go.

What was the point, really?

Mr. Cr—Anthony doesn’t look like a day older than twenty-six. Aziraphale remembers what being young felt like.

“No, of course not,” he says, only to break the awkward silence that follows. He sips his tea, self-consciously not adding his usual three cubes of sugar. He notices Anthony doesn’t touch any of the biscuits or cupcakes. “And you can call me Aziraphale, then.”

“Quite the religious name there, right?” Anthony says.

“Yeah, uh…” Aziraphale fumbles with the ring on his finger, then with the handle of his mug. Gone are the days when his name was a source of jokes and laughter at primary school, so there’s no reason to be uncomfortable when someone points it out, even though those days still feel as fresh as new, as if Aziraphale were about to relive them at any moment. 

“Is it a family name?”

“Not at all,” Aziraphale says. “Well, sorta. My family is quite the religious sort, you see, so it’s, uh... It’s a homage to an angel my parents prayed for, once. Their prayers were answered and they always felt very grateful.”

“Hm.” Anthony takes a sip of his tea, and then flashes another one of this kind of smiles Aziraphale is noticing are very uniquely his. One Aziraphale tries very hard to not stare at. Anthony sure does smile a lot, doesn’t he?

“So, uh.. Anthony.” Aziraphale tries smiling back. Smiling is always the best tactic, always. Maybe Anthony knows that as well. “Welcome to my working station. I hope everything is to your approval. I gotta tell you, it’s been a long time since I held a photoshoot here. I’m afraid I’m a little rusty.” He laughs a little. “I was thinking we could go over some more details again?”

“Yes. Let’s talk about that. It’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?”

“Yes, of course. We did discuss the basics, but not the, uh… specifics.”

“Yes, yes. So. I’m looking for some very specific things here. First of all, you did check my website, didn’t you? Or at least any of the links I sent you?”

Aziraphale feels his entire face warming up. He lifts his own mug exaggeratedly high for a sip, in a failed attempt to hide the obvious blush creeping up his cheeks. He nods.

“Alright, so I take it you are acquainted with my… preferred aesthetic.”

If by _preferred aesthetic_ Anthony means full frontal shots of his nude body, or videos of him playing with himself as he talks to the camera—or with the people watching him, Aziraphale took an embarrassing amount of time to understand—then yes, Aziraphale has been made fully aware of the nature of Anthony’s profession. He is a sex worker. Of the virtual kind. Aziraphale perceives those kinds of professionals are called _cam boys_ , though he finds that too crude, so he’s not sure. He didn’t have the courage to peruse his client’s career for more than a few minutes, and he hadn’t looked it up ever since that first day they interacted. (Though the images he saw never really left his mind.)

“Of course I am. You did send me the, uh… all that material.”

Anthony nods. “Good. Just checking. Anyway, what I want for this is a little bit different. You see, I’m launching a new platform—well, me and a few friends are launching a new platform. A new website. It’s meant for us to own and manage by ourselves, so it’s gonna be just us and, well, our viewers. So what I want here today is something to grasp our viewers attention, y’know?”

“Oh?”

“Don’t worry, it’s not gonna be anything _too_ explicit. Well, it is, but—well, it’s more of a request-based photoshoot, so—” He pauses, shakes his head. “Mr. Fell, are you sure you’re okay with this?”

Aziraphale doesn’t know what face he is making, and he tries not to choke on his tea. “Of course, dear boy!” he says, overly cheery. “I wouldn’t have agreed to this gig if I wasn’t sure, would I?”

Anthony watches him for a couple of moments. Aziraphale can’t tell what’s in the younger man’s eyes, not with the sunglasses on. It takes a few seconds of scrutinizing before Anthony speaks again.

“Look, if this makes you in any way uncomfortable we can—”

“Now, why would I be uncomfortable? I must tell you, my dear, I am a professional. And although I admit this is a new mishap I’m venturing into, I assure you there’s nothing uncomfortable about it.” Aziraphale gives him a big smile, reminding himself that there is a contract involved, both had already signed it, and he wasn’t too keen on falling on that clause that determined restitution for whatever was paid upfront. He couldn’t even afford to.

Plus, it would be just too unprofessional, maybe even unethical, to cancel everything now that his client already showed up.

(It’s not because Anthony is a… very good looking man, or because his profession and the way he presented himself sparked some kind of... old, buried deep curiosity Aziraphale has never allowed himself to explore. It is not. It is not.)

“Do go on, dear boy, don’t mind me. I’m just over here assessing your vision.”

“Alright. I trust you are telling the truth.” Anthony takes a final sip of his tea, and Aziraphale can’t shake the feeling he is still being scrutinized. “Okay, so, my vision, as you say, is to maintain the cozy, homelike atmosphere I’m known for in my videos. Which is why the scenery you set up is perfectly fine.”

“I’m glad it’s to your liking.”

“But since this is meant to lure my current viewers to our new platform, I’m going to be fulfilling a few requests from my, eh... most illustrious followers. If you know what I mean.”

Aziraphale didn’t exactly, but he nodded anyway. “So the photoshoot is about filling requests? And setting up the atmosphere for the new platform, I take it?”

“Exactly. I want to make it very special, make them curious, wanting more, y’know?”

“How many requests are we talking about? You talked about wardrobe change.”

“About...” Anthony pulls up his phone from his pocket, messes with it a little bit. “Fifteen requests.”

“Fifteen?”

“Is that too much? I can shrink it down if it’s too much.”

“You’re the boss here.” Aziraphale gestures towards his client. Most photoshoots, in his experience, took maybe three or four wardrobe changes, but, as Aziraphale himself had just said, this one was indeed a new adventure. “We’ll do as many as you deem necessary.”

Anthony grins at him, and it’s... well, it’s really beautiful. Aziraphale can only imagine he has many... followers, as Anthony put it. It would be only fair.

“Perhaps we should, uh... use the window’s light to our advantage, then. It’s a nice sunny day out there, I’m sure I can adjust the blinds and my lights to whatever it is you’re searching for. We don’t have many props or even a change of scenery, but that will probably add to the homemade atmosphere you’re looking for.”

“Great,” Anthony says, and at last takes one of the biscuits Aziraphale set for him. “I knew you’d be the right guy for the job. I saw your portfolio you put online. I looked at those pictures and told myself, yeah, that’s the guy. He’s got the vision.”

Aziraphale has to take his gaze away. He hopes he is not blushing too much even as his mouth parts in an uncontrollable smile.

“Jolly good, then. Shall we start?”

“Sure. I’m just gonna change.”


End file.
